


Ever-fixèd mark

by KareliaSweet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (no really), AU, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Drinking, Elizabethan, Espionage, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Heartbreak, M/M, Poetry, Writing, Yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You are not Will Shakespeare.”</i><br/>The man’s mouth curves in a challenging smile, eyes sparking as they gently wrinkle at the corners.<br/>“And what makes you say this?”<br/>Hannibal shifts his gaze over the impostor's shoulder, to the timid man standing in the shadows and points at him.<br/>“Because he is.”</p><p> </p><p>Shakespeare AU. The great Christopher Marlowe takes it upon himself to bring rising playwright Will Shakespeare under his wing. A little bit of Shakespeare In Love, a dash of espionage, and a whole bunch of Hannigram.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Then, afterwards, to order well the state,  
That like events may ne'er it ruinate._

Thunderous applause sings to the rafters between peasants and high-borns alike. The groundlings stamp their feet and one by one, bodies resurrect themselves and rise to bow.

The actors each smile wide in turn before turning in uniform with a sweeping arm, gesturing for the last of them to join the stage.

He enters with unmistakable swagger, a broad grin of self-satisfaction spread across his features.

Hannibal watches him, watches the curling unkempt hair and twinkling blue eyes, watches him bow deeply, again, then _again_ , wringing up the last of the rapturous hollering directed his way. He throws his arms out in a beneficent gesture and the theatre falls quickly to silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows, “Will Shakespeare gives you his most humble thanks!”

He cocks a brow that quirks in tandem with a saucy smile. “ _I_ am Will Shakespeare.”

For a brief moment Hannibal imagines he has gone deaf from the roar of applause, and he shakes his head as the braggadocio silences them again.

“I hope you have enjoyed our play,” he pauses for another brief round of boisterous approval, “it may have been gruesome – my apologies madam –” he winks cavalierly at a particularly buxom lass standing near the front of the stage, “but it certainly wasn’t as boring as Tamburlaine!”

Hannibal’s mouth sets in an unpleasant line as the audience erupts yet again in raucous laughter.

“We will be performing as long as we are bloody able, so please tell your friends  - especially you madam,” another lascivious look at the woman in front, “and we shall continue to entertain you until my next masterpiece!”

The audience sings the last of their approval, applauding and stamping with drunken enthusiasm. Shakespeare swings his arms upwards and takes a deep bow to the floor, the actors around him joining in less grand flourishes. Behind them, Hannibal notices a flutter of movement in the wings, sees the tips of smudged fingers curl and retreat.

As the crowd around them filters out, Hannibal remains seated, waiting. The actors mill about, removing heavier costume pieces and picking up strips of cloth that had been used as makeshift blood. The energy around them hums with good-natured pride, and they clap each other on the backs for a job well done. Shakespeare surveys them, doing little to help himself, casting his eyes instead to the space around them, to the heavens themselves, before he looks down and his eyes meet Hannibal’s.

Hannibal rises slowly and nods in greeting.

“Sir!” Shakespeare says, “you are aware that the play is over?”

He sounds cheerful enough but there is a warning in his tone. Hannibal has stayed past their witching-hour and is not entirely welcome.

“Quite aware, sir,” he responds, “I found myself quite mesmerized. I fear I have lost the time.”

Shakespeare perks up. “Mesmerized, you say?”

Hannibal makes his way through the narrow seats and down towards the stage.

“Indeed. How did you manage to spill so much blood without injury?”

“Ah!” the bard claps his hands together and points, “an excellent question.”

He draws one of the slighter actors towards him, and effeminate elfin man.

“Lavinia, you see, we placed a small red handkerchief in her – _his_ – mouth, sorry Matthew.”

The man shrugs and opens his mouth to display a completely whole tongue.

“See? Quite unharmed.” He gives the man, boy really, a shove and sends him on his way.

“With the rest we use similar fabrics, different shades and textures to best fit.”

Hannibal nods and clasps his hands behind his back. “Ingenious.”

“They do call me one of those,” Shakespeare replies, and his misuse of the word is enough evidence to prove Hannibal’s suspicions.

He casts a wide glance to each end of the stage, watches as the pretense is gently folded away and reset in preparation for the next performance. The man who watches from the wings would be almost invisible were it not for his bright blue eyes. Hannibal looks at his hands and sees the same ink smudges he had seen ghosts of before. Their eyes meet for a brief second and Hannibal finds himself lost for a moment before the man shifts and hides his gaze behind a mop of dark curls.

Shakespeare looks at him with a puzzled frown.

“Is there something that troubles you, sir?”

Hannibal looks him up and down, at his tailored doublet and eyes full of mischief. He looks at his hands. They are entirely clean.

“You are not Will Shakespeare.”

The man’s mouth curves in a challenging smile, eyes sparking as they gently wrinkle at the corners.

“And what makes you say this?”

Hannibal shifts his gaze over the imposter’s shoulder, to the timid man standing in the shadows and points at him.

“Because he is,” Hannibal says plainly.

The young man’s eyes widen, and for just a moment his mouth trembles in a near smile, pleased with recognition despite himself. Then, just as quick, he disappears, sliding into the shadows behind the stage. The man standing before him laughs brightly, watching Hannibal with keen eyes.

“I stand impressed. Many have accused me of being other than who I claim to be,” he tells him, “none before have discerned the true author so readily.”

He leans conspiratorially into Hannibal, breath ghosting over his ear. “The man is terribly shy.”

He laughs again at a joke that is clearly not meant for him.

“You have at the least earned yourself an introduction for your efforts. Come,” he claps him on the shoulder, “let us see if we can grant you an audience.”

He leads him back stage, quiet now, echoing the silence strangely without words to fill it. Streams and great swaths of red ribbon lay haphazardly about, pooling almost as blood would. It is an odd scene, neutered of its violence now that the mask of theatricality has been cast aside.

Hannibal is led up a narrow wooden staircase to a small door with a plain iron knocker. The man knocks once for courtesy and enters immediately, ushering Hannibal into the little room.

Will stands before a tiny window, focusing the entirety of his being on a patch of sky beyond and resolutely ignoring his intruders. The room is cramped, lined with a small cot that takes up the majority of its length. Beside it, a stool and a writing desk, clearly cared for more than the cot itself. Upon the desks are several pots of ink and a handful of quills, sheets of paper smudged with near illegible scrawling. Works of an unpolished genius, hidden behind the charming pomposity of the man now unabashedly grinning at them both.

“Will!” he exclaims, “would you believe the audacity of this terrible stranger?”

Will does not turn his face, ink-stained fingers tucked behind his back in a twitching fold.

“Anthony,” he sighs, “I have repeatedly asked you not to disturb my only sanctuary and now you drag strangers into it. Why must you continue to torture me?”

He turns to face them both, and Will’s breath catches in his throat. He had taken mere snatches of glances at the curious man but had paid him little mind. Seeing him now mere meters away, Will cannot escape his beauty. Tall and haughty with deep and unreadable eyes, fine hair that streaks filaments of gold in the afternoon light, proud and high cheekbones that so fetchingly frame the fullness of his mouth. He watches the mouth pull into a smile, clearly pleased with being so shamelessly scrutinzed.

Will feels the blush spread across his nose and cheeks and sees Anthony smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“My apologies,” Anthony lies, “I thought perhaps his cleverness warranted a peek at your madness.”

He crosses the small room to drop an affectionate kiss to the dappled rosiness of Will’s cheek, careful to meet Hannibal’s eyes as he does. Will neither squirms from nor leans into the touch, but he brushes the outside of Anthony’s arm with his fingers and gives him the lightest of pushes. The older man lingers a moment, barely brushing his nose to Will’s ear before turning to regard Hannibal.

“I shall leave you to acquaint yourselves,” he declares, satisfied that he has marked his territory sufficiently.

Anthony’s shoulder brushes Hannibal as he leaves, a careless touch were it not for the merry eyes that meet his upon exit. The door closes heavily behind them, and Hannibal breathes in the heady smell of ink and parchment.

“Why do you hide behind that pompous peacock?” Hannibal asks.

Will frowns even as Hannibal can see the amusement tickle his features.

“I do not care overmuch for people,” he replies, “but my works, of late, have been performed with regularity. Audiences clamor to know the man behind the quill. I had no desire to… peacock myself and so Anthony volunteered to be my face.”

“How very noble,” Hannibal says drily.

“Of what import is it to you? Why did you seek me?” Will asks. He keeps his eyes set to the floor, barely looking over the fuss of curls that he hides himself behind.

“I very much enjoyed the performance,” Hannibal replies, “I find the author’s work quite visionary, though perhaps a little rough around the edges.”

Will gapes at him. “Rough – rough around the edges?” Overcompensating pride sets his shoulders together and he juts out his chin. It would look like more of a challenge if he didn’t have the visage of an angel.

“Do you know to whom you speak, sir?”

“Yes,” Hannibal nods, “do you?”

“I-” Will stops and frowns, “I do not.” He looks at the man in bewilderment.

“Who are you?”

“A fellow writer, like yourself.”

“Oh,” Will’s feathers are raised again, “would I be familiar with your work?”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal concedes, “at the very least your dear Anthony is.”

He smiles at Will with a flash of crooked teeth. “Quite the shame that he did not enjoy my Tamburlaine.”

Will’s breath leaves him in a rush and he stumbles, falters, catching his balance on the cot and sitting heavy.

“You’re – you’re Kit Marlowe,” he gasps, and sets his head between his knees. “Oh God.”

“Does this displease you?” Hannibal asks.

Will laughs at the floor.

“Of course not. Your words are my foundations.” He looks back up at Hannibal and his gaze is piercing in its earnestness. “You know that they are.”

Will stands and begins to pace the room as best as he can in the limited space he has at his disposal.

“I would have sworn you would be older – _much_ older – but you’re,” he stops and looks at Hannibal, almost drinking him in, “you’re the same age as I.”

Hannibal lifts a brow. “I highly doubt that, Master Shakespeare.”

Will laughs hollow and scrubs a hand over his smooth chin. “It’s the face, the bloody face, I know it. No cherub I. I am all of twenty eight years with a wife and three children to show for it.”

The last fact is almost more shocking than the first to Hannibal, after watching him allow and accept the easy affection of Anthony. Will seems to register this and smiles ruefully.

“A young boy then, with little to show the world but the linings of my pockets, and a kind woman who drew me to her bed and imprisoned me once her belly began to grow. She is in Stratford,” he shrugs, “and I remain and pretend that I am still but twenty two with a world of possibilities besides.”

He sighs heavy.

“And now before me stands the great Christopher Marlowe, proving that all my possibilities are as potent as withered and ancient dust.”

Hannibal smiles and crosses to him, helplessly spellbound by his effortless outpouring of his heart.

“You are a masterful poet,” he murmurs and cups Will’s cheek in his hand. Will stands in shock, near numb to the sudden touch, his eyes shining with confusion and fear and… want.

“Why are you here, Marlowe?” he asks softly.

Hannibal strokes a thumb over his cheekbone. “First I must inform you that is not my given name. I have found that a pseudonym proves useful for a man who was not born to this land.”

He lowers his hand and shifts to clear a little distance between them.

“Hannibal,” he introduces and holds his hand out to shake. Will takes it with hesitance, pressing a brief squeeze.

“Hannibal,” Will repeats to him, “once of Carthage. You are a commander of words in your current incarnation,” he observes.

“As are you, Master Shakespeare.”

“Will,” he clarifies, “please, just Will.”

“Very well, Will.” He watches the shiver sweep over him at the way his mouth wraps around the name. Hannibal smiles and tucks away the knowledge for safekeeping.

“As I told you – and meant no insult by it – your works are rough, but beneath the roughness lays a multitude of riches. I wished to meet the man who is learning to mine them and perhaps guide his hand.”

Will knits his brown in a small frown. “Why?”

“Because,” Hannibal replies, “I find you interesting.”

“I have found myself bored of late. Words have run dry for me since _Faustus_ ,” Hannibal admits, “I am not seeking assistance,” he clarifies, “I am seeking one who is worthy continue in my stead.”

“You wish to be my mentor?” Will laughs, “I would almost be insulted – no, I believe I am insulted.”

“I mean no offense, sir.”

“I am quite aware you do not,” Will says gently.

He treads the floor softly and looks Hannibal up and down, his eyes slow and unashamed in their examination of every detail.

“You are entirely the opposite of what I expected,” he whispers, then chuckles. “Not that I ever expected Kit Marlowe to break down my door and offer his tutelage.”

“Not tutelage, Will,” Hannibal says, “Guidance, perhaps. And I am not entirely without ego – my greatest days may still be yet before me and my words will flow again. In which case,” he adds, “I shall take my leave of you without so much as a thank you and steal the greatest of your ideas.”

Will laughs, and the innocence of the sound rings resonant in Hannibal’s chest.

“You make a truly terrible offer,” he says, knowing he has already accepted it. Knowing he has little choice when this curious stranger has already so thoroughly peeled his layers bare and left him aching for further scrutiny.

Hannibal smiles, resists the pull to sink his hands into the mass of curls that refuse taming. He had not expected this, had expected a dull but thoughtful man who would assist in the maintenance of his legacy and do little besides.

But this, this Will, is the newly lit embers of a fire that needs but a little stoking to burn bright and fierce.

Both aware of the silence between them and entirely comfortable in it, they stand and face each other, the multitude of words – their greatest tool – useless in this moment.

Will smiles, a small curling thing, and his eyes shine in youthful promise.

“I accept.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Bloody hell! Christopher sodding Marlowe!”

Anthony stars at him slack-jawed over his ale, rubbing fiercely at his eyes as if to wake himself.

“Are you sure it was him? Any tosspot can put on airs and claim to be a reknowned playwright.”

Will huffs a rough chuckle. “It was him, of that I am entirely certain. You remain the only tosspot in my acquaintance, _Master Shakespeare_.”

He pulls long at the syllables with affectation, circling his hand in mock genuflection. Anthony smiles and pushes Will’s shoulder with his fist.

“Watch how you spin your words, Graham, or I may start to believe you care for me.”

Anthony is always careful not to use Will’s name when they are seen in public. He has run through an impressive roster of improvised names throughout the years as they take their drink from public house to public house, but he settled on Graham because of the singular wince that shuddered through Will when he used it. Will can give no reason for his distaste, except that he does not like the way the word sounds, and so Anthony continues to use it with infuriating relish.

“You could have chosen anything else in the world,” Will reproaches, “and yet you are singularly bent on torturing my ears.”

Anthony shifts slightly, bringing his elbow to nudge in a little slide against his. “I have other more distracting ways of torturing your ears.”

His breath is hot on Will’s face and he feels a flush creeping in blooming vines. Grumbling a curse, he shoves at Anthony and takes a heady swig of ale.

“You are impossible,” he says, and it is equal parts complaint and praise.

On the other side of the tavern, Will hears a squeal, an uncommon sound in this particular establishment, but it is clear that this is a noise of protest and not encouragement. He and Anthony turn to see the young barmaid, face beet red and hands smoothing down her skirts. Judging by the piteous drooling face of the portly man sitting behind her, his hands had been up those skirts scant seconds before.

“Abigail!” Will calls with affected sternness, “Master Shakespeare has called for more ale!”

She nods with wide frightened eyes and dodges the fat chasing fingers that try to follow as she scoots away. The man slobbers out a slur at her expense and drops his hand, too weighted with drink to follow.

Anthony examines his still half-full flagon. “I have no need for more ale.”

“Neither do I,” Will replies, “but Abigail is in need of a respite, and despite what you may believe I am still a gentleman.”

Abigail comes towards them with a full pitcher, notes the relative fullness of their glasses and tops up what she can.

“Thank you sir,” she curtsies to Will, “he’s in a foul state today.”

“Who is that drunken sot?” Will asks with a thinly veiled sneer.

“John something,” she shrugs, “don’t know, don’t care. Just know I was about ready to chop those fingers off and shove ‘em up his arse.”

Anthony bellows a hearty laugh.

“A woman after my own heart.” He takes Abigail’s hand and gently brushes his lips across it.

“I am in your debt, Madam.”

Abigail, all of fourteen if that, giggles and blushes from the roots of her hair to as far as the eye can see. Will rolls his eyes and pulls Anthony’s hand to safer quarters.

“That’s quite enough, Master Shakespeare.” He smiles at Abigail, who is clearly too flustered to breathe. “Thank you, Abigail, for your assistance.”

Eyes glassy, she nods in Will’s vague direction and moves on to serve friendlier tables, studiously avoiding the red-faced drunk who watches her from the corner with bloodshot eyes.

“Jealous?” Anthony smirks.

“Hardly,” Will snaps, “she’s a child.”

“You have a terrible fondness for that one, you know. I cannot see why, she’s barely interesting.”

“She reminds me of Susanna,” Will tells him truthfully, and is met with a blank stare. “My daughter? Christ, Anthony – _Will_ – you’ve met her twice before, and the twins. As well as my wife – might I say _your_ wife.”

“Ah yes,” Anthony’s eyes fog over pleasantly, “I recall the lovely Alana.”

“Anne,” Will says in exasperation, “her name is Anne.”

“Her name is what I please it to be,” Anthony says superciliously, “she is my wife after all.”

Will buries his head in his hands.

“I have created a most terrible monster.”

“A monster that loves you terribly,” Anthony replies warmly, “although it would seem I may have to challenge Kit Marlowe to a duel before overlong. I saw how his eyes devoured you.”

Will’s feels his face heat instantly, and he ducks his face between splayed fingers. Teasingly, Anthony peels away the fingers of his closest hand, one by one, revealing the dusky rose that has set firmly over his cheeks.

“My,” he breathes, “a blushing bride are we.”

“Leave it be,” Will pleads, and the older man tucks the freed fingers in his own hand, squeezing before setting Will’s hand back to the table.

“My dear Graham,” he says softly, “I had always hoped I could wear you down before another sought your heart.”

Will laughs lightly and nudges Anthony’s shoulder. “You have come far closer than most,” he concedes.

“Ah well,” Anthony sighs, “at least I have a dear wife and children awaiting me in Stratford.”

He winks and sets coins to the table, standing and holding out an elbow.

“Shall we, Master Graham?”

Will stands and links arms with his. “Indeed, Master Shakespeare.”

“Remind me,” Anthony says as they exit, “how many children do I have again?”

“Christ alive, you have three.” Will replies with exasperation.

Anthony laughs. “How on earth you managed to bed a woman enough times to bring one screeching babe into the world, let alone three…”

“Drink,” Will says honestly.

“Ah.”

Clear of the boisterous air of the pub, they walk the streets in companionable silence, little to mark their journey save nightingales and the occasional drunken retch.

“What shall you be doing with this Marlowe then?” Anthony asks.

“Write,” Will ventures, “talk of writing. Write together, perhaps. I am not entirely sure of his exact intentions.”

“And yet you said yes to him so readily. It’s not like you to remain so unguarded in the face of uncertainty.”

“There is an air about him, I cannot – he saw me, almost through me, from the moment he laid eyes on me. No one has seen me so clearly before.”

Will feels a smile ghost over his lips at the memory, of dark eyes that had sharpened upon him as though he were the centrepoint of the heavens. In that tiny room he had felt overwhelmingly consumed and yet now was plagued with a hunger.

“Did you see _him_?” Anthony’s voice breaks his reverie.

“Did I-”

“The man seems quite the mystery to me. Were you able to see him as well as he apparently saw you?” Anthony’s tone is more clipped than it needs to be, but they both know the reason for it and Will lets it pass.

“I’m not entirely certain,” he replies, “I saw something. Something monstrously wonderful. I had always thought of Marlowe as a God, and the man carries himself as such, yet there is… a kinship. Some thread that runs between us that I had not known existed until I felt its pull. It is remarkable.” Will pauses, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the tenuous emotions clawing through his belly. “ _He_ is remarkable.”

Arms still linked, Anthony stops them suddenly to pull Will into a small alcove recessing towards a particularly grimy alley.

“Anthony, what are you-”

Anthony’s mouth is on his before he can sputter a protest, fierce and wanting. Will sighs into it, hands pressing firmly to Anthony’s chest, allowing but not encouraging. Smooth fingers tangle into his hair, tugging playfully, and Will opens his mouth just a touch, just briefly.

It’s rare that he gets in moods maudlin enough to fully pursue his desire, rarer still for him to steal a kiss on a public street, but there is a sweet desperation to this circumstance that tugs at Will’s heart. He knows why Anthony is doing this, even if Will himself does not fully understand it yet. He can allow him this.

When he knows that Anthony has had his fill, or as much as can be allowed, he breaks the kiss gently, ducking his head and allowing the last few presses of lips to his cheeks, his brow, gentle brushes over his eyes. Hands in his hair slip to his face, and when Anthony slides a thumb over his cheekbone Will feels the brand of Hannibal’s hand upon him earlier that afternoon, and a moan slips from him bright and sudden. Anthony’s eyes flare and he turns his nose against Will’s face, ducking to seek another kiss, but Will turns away, pushing at Anthony’s chest until he lets him go completely.

They breathe harshly, Will tracing the lines of the cobblestones with his eyes as he feels Anthony watch him.

“I shan’t pretend that there is a like thread between us,” Anthony teases, mouth soft in a smile he finds hard to keep, “but you are all that I find remarkable, Will.”

“Anthony…”

“No. Enough now. To home and bed for you, drunken lovesick fool.”

Will does not touch upon Anthony’s choice of words, but he rolls them over in his brain, tasting and finding the sensation not entirely unfamiliar. Anthony simply shakes his head in pity and offers his elbow as they set upon their walk home.

Neither notice the man watching from the shadows, and they are but pinpricks in his vision when he steps out into the dim glow of the street lamp. Light flickers and dances over the hollow of his cheekbones, and his mouth curls as he watches them continue on their merry way.

Hannibal wants, in that moment, to follow them, to pull Anthony from Will’s arm and beat him soundly for daring to touch what is his. He wants to taste the nectar of Will’s mouth as the drunken boy had, but this, he knows, can be accomplished in time.

At present, there is a far more pressing matter at hand, and he crosses to the entrance of the dark alley that had courted their drunken fumblings only minutes before. He can still smell the arousal, can taste the want that had poured thick from Will’s pores like an elixir. He imagines pressing his tongue to sweat-salted flesh and drinking the taste down and his throat rumbles in response.

Business, Hannibal reminds himself, and continues along the alley until he reaches the other side. It is a particularly seedy street, an extra layer of filth seeming to coat the very air around him. Nose twitching in a snarl of disgust, he counts each decrepit door he passes until he reaches the fifth. He knocks twice, two distinct and sharp raps placed evenly apart.

The door opens barely half an inch and a shrewd green eye peers through at him. The eye blinks one and the door opens fully, revealing a young woman with wild red curls and steel in her spine.

“Marlowe,” she greets.

“Fred,” he nods curtly, “they have squared you away in a most disreputable area.”

“Better to find those who are disreputable,” she says archly.

She gestures him in with a sweep of her arm and watches him with wary eyes.

“I hear you’ve been taking in some theatre.”

“I am a playwright, Fred,” he says mildly, “it is a hazard of the occupation.”

She snorts uncouthly, but Hannibal does not respond.

“I’m quite aware of your profession, _Hannibal_.” Her teeth draw daggers around his name. “Why someone so painfully known to the public was found to be suited for our work is beyond my comprehension.”

“Perhaps it is precisely because I am quite able to hide in plain sight,” Hannibal offers, and his face flashes sympathy for the briefest of moments, “would that you could do the same.”

“Ha!” her laugh is bitter as wormwood, “Would that women could do but a fraction of what you men are afforded so effortlessly. I will remain _Fred_ until a better opportunity presents itself.”

“Enough pleasantries,” she says briskly, and hands him a folded parchment held closed with a thick wax seal, “your next assignment.”

Hannibal takes it with a nod and tucks it to his cape. “Anything interesting to be gleaned from this one?”

“You know I’m not privy to any of that information,” Fred says haughtily, but her mouth immediately turns in a wry curve.

“It is my understanding that Monsieur Froidevaux has found himself speaking far too boisterously of matters of state that are not his concern. Her Majesty would prefer his tongue be silenced without fanfare.”

“It is already done,” Hannibal smiles thinly, and bows to Fred, who flips two fingers rudely at him.

“Fuck off,” she says with only a little venom, and Hannibal departs.

Dawn begins its lazy stretch through the sky, and he strides home under the last of dwindling stars, poetry singing in his heart and blood dancing under his fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this blasphemy? Probably. All I know is that this wretched idea that sank its teeth in me and would not let go. I apologize for any once and future anachronisms, I am trying to keep this as faithful to the period as I can, but I am taking some liberties with dates and history. Don't be alarmed if you're familiar with Marlowe's life, not everything is as it seems... perhaps.
> 
> more of my madness at [lovecrimevariations](http://http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com/)


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